Waiting
by LadyDivine91
Summary: When Crowley's brain resets, when his anxiety and fear of abandonment returns, he goes to Aziraphale's bookshop where he kneels ... and he waits. Aziraphale x Crowley


Aziraphale feels him when he gets to the door.

_Before_ he gets to the door.

He feels him when he crosses the street, stronger when the sole of his derbies come in contact with the stoop.

When he puts his hand on the doorknob, he can see him.

When he couldn't get a hold of him hours ago, he knew he'd be there.

Not necessarily waiting for him, just praying he'll see him.

Aziraphale once thought those were the same thing, but over time, he realized they're not.

The first time was a surprise to him.

Not to find Crowley in his bookshop waiting for him. That has happened on many an occasion, often to the detriment of his Buccella Merlot.

There was also an entire three months when the demon slept in his back room, adhered to the ceiling. He never did explain _why_ he did that. He simply woke up one afternoon (Friday, November 18th, at 3:27) as if nothing were awry and asked Aziraphale if he'd like to have a spot of lunch.

But lately, Aziraphale will come home to his shop to find Crowley kneeling on the floor, staring at the ceiling, the most heartbreaking mask of devastation on his face.

Broken and alone.

Fragile and too far out of reach to touch.

And this surprised Aziraphale because he thought Crowley was fine. By all accounts, he _seemed_ that way. Completely over it. Entirely unfazed. His same old sarcastic, acerbic self.

But he wasn't.

Something inside of him had fractured, his sense of security broken. Smoke had seeped inside, fire filled the cracks, his psyche glazed over with fear.

It was with a soul-severing sorrow that Aziraphale realized it wasn't the first time.

Crowley on his knees, gazing at the ceiling, quite possibly seeing the stars beyond, stars he'd created, stars he'd never touch again, was a reflection of the time after he fell. When he thought God had abandoned him.

On his knees in Aziraphale's bookshop, Aziraphale's _paradise_, a place that had become Crowley's sanctuary but only because Aziraphale lived there, with flames climbing around him, devouring the air, blocking out the light and mocking him with its careless dancing and its crackling laughter, he'd thought Aziraphale had abandoned him, too.

Taken against his will, swallowed in the fire, but abandoned nevertheless.

But that time had passed, or so Aziraphale thought.

Every once in a while, for reasons unknown to him, Crowley's brain resets. It brings him plummeting back to that moment of grief, and that grief brings him to Aziraphale's door.

There's no talking him through it. Aziraphale has tried. He'd sit in a chair and have lengthy, one-sided conversations with Crowley to no avail. Once he tried leaving him be, but Crowley knelt there for days, with Aziraphale ever nearby, refusing to leave him alone.

Aziraphale found the cure by accident.

In desperation, he knelt in front of Crowley to make the demon see him, took his hands in his and looked into his eyes. He'd resigned himself to kneeling for as long as necessary, but it took only moments.

Crowley's eyes came down from the rafters, his expression of anguish becoming one of relief the instant their gazes met.

"Aziraphale," he said, squinting at the angel with watery eyes – eyes that had cried so long and so hard, they'd begun to change colors from a piercing yellow to a somber sunset orange, "is that you?"

"Yes," Aziraphale replied with a soft smile. "It's me."

"Are you … are you here?"

"Yes, I'm here."

Crowley swallowed, his voice shaking until it was more vibration than sound. "Are you … are you going to leave me?"

"No. I'm never going to leave you. Never again."

"P-promise me," Crowley whimpered, sucking in air between sobs as if he were sucking in life, trying to get it back now that he knew Aziraphale hadn't gone. "Promise me you're not going to leave."

"Oh, my dear boy …" Aziraphale placed a gentle hand to his damp cheek, trying his hardest to wipe away every mournful tear with his soothing smile. "I promise."

Aziraphale does it now, with no thought for the state of his trousers as he lowers himself to the hardwood floor. He takes Crowley's hands and gives them a squeeze. After a beat, Crowley's fingers twitch, reflexively squeezing back. His eyes leave the spot they've been staring through for the past few hours and find Aziraphale's face. He chuckles, struck by the absurdity. He must be dreaming. Aziraphale isn't here. He's not kneeling in a burnt down bookshop, sacrificing his favorite trousers to the soot-covered floor, hasn't returned to the demon he chose the world over.

He couldn't survive the Hellfire. No angel could.

Crowley blinks, then blinks again, but the angel's face doesn't dissolve away, the hands holding his don't crumble into ash.

"A-aziraphale," he whispers, holding the hands in his tighter, "is that you?"

The vision in front of him smiles. "Yes. It's me."

"Are you … are you here?" Crowley coughs as the thick air becomes cooler, sweeter the longer he stares at the hallucination in front of him.

_Is this what dying feels like?_ he wonders. _Because if it is, it isn't all that bad, really …_

"Yes, I'm here."

"Are you … are you going to leave me?"

"No. I'm never going to leave you. Never again."

Crowley nods, the lines in his face smoothing as he comes to grips with the fact that Aziraphale is alive – alive and well and holding his hands. His happiness is there with him, in front of his eyes, rising from beneath his relived agony, but the pain is still too real to him, too heavy for him, and his back bows beneath its weight.

"They tried to take you from me!" Crowley's shoulders shudder as he bends forward to kiss his angel's hands, feel his warmth against his lips, know that he's real.

"_Tried_ being the operative word," Aziraphale teases. "They tried to take you from me, too. And they didn't succeed. We won. Together."

"Together," Crowley repeats.

"Yes," Aziraphale says. "Together. We're here together … kneeling on the filthy, filthy floor. Now then, would you like to sit on the sofa and have a nice, hot cup of tea with me? Or a good stiff brandy?"

"Both," Crowley says, the inkling of a smile lifting his lips. "But could we …?"

"Could we …?"

"Stay here a little while longer?" Crowley asks with a hint of regret, lying on his side and resting his head against Aziraphale's knee. "On the filthy floor?"

"Oh … all right." With a sigh that's less put out than it sounds, Aziraphale obliges, shifting from his knees to his seat, maneuvering Crowley's head to his thigh to make him more comfortable. "Take your time," he whispers when he hears Crowley sniff, and starts running his fingers through his hair. "We have plenty to spare."


End file.
